


We Never Go Out of Style

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gossip Girl Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:56:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6651274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>SMOKING CW</p>
    </blockquote>





	We Never Go Out of Style

**Author's Note:**

> SMOKING CW

“You seen my cigarettes?”

“No,” Shougo lies, stuffing his hands deeper into the pockets of his pants.

Shougo could argue that technically the cigarettes aren’t his brother’s any more than they’re his; technically their mom is the one who imports them from Japan (and both Shougo and his brother know better than to get her started on the American flavored cigarette ban) for the purposes of smoking them herself, but she’s negligent when it comes to remembering how much she actually has and, well. They’re not the only kind Shougo smokes (he can totally handle regular cigarettes, thank you very much) but once in a while is fine.

And if his mom’s nearly out and he finds half a pack in the navy Brooks Brothers blazer he’s borrowing from his brother, well. Finders keepers.

“You sure? Because if you have—”

Shougo rolls his eyes. “Go buy some. You’re legal.”

“You can’t buy the cherry ones here, dumbass.”

“Then go to Japan. Say hi to Dad for me—”

Shougo ducks away from the empty water bottle his brother chucks at his head and darts out the door. There’s a party tonight at the planetarium at the Museum of Natural History and it started half an hour ago. There’s a limit to even fashionably late, and a point where they’ll stop letting people in.

Shougo had thought about not going—he’s still considering it, to be honest. He could stay in and drink and maybe write a paragraph of bullshit for the English essay due next week and order a pizza with his brother. That wouldn’t involve getting out and walking half a mile in the early spring weather without an umbrella (because he’s sure as hell not going to carry one around). And being that this party is at the planetarium, even if there’s no official host it has to be that Kobori guy whose parents are huge museum benefactors and have their names on two wings and are reportedly trying to buy naming rights to the planetarium itself. Shougo doesn’t know Kobori all that well, but he knows Kobori knows Ryouta, and Ryouta will probably be there—not that Shougo is avoiding him. But after that stupid fight he’s not really sure he wants to see Ryouta right now. And if Ryouta’s there Seijuurou and all of his lovely friends will be, too, and Shougo does not have the energy to deal with them. He’s not afraid of them, just practical—they’re annoying as hell, that’s all. And there are too many of them, especially if they’re with Ryouta. Shougo’s not jealous, either—but he probably should go to this party anyway. It won’t be to see what Ryouta’s up to, but if Shougo happens to run into him that might be fortuitous.

* * *

The ceiling swirls above them, slowly enough that if Shougo were a little drunker it might be mesmerizing. He can say a lot of things about the planetarium but it’s not uncool even if he’d long since stopped being impressed by it (if he ever was). Still, he feels a little bit weird and conspicuous in the wrong way. His brother’s jacket is too tight in the shoulders and too loose at the waist; Shougo can feel the thread straining like a twelve-year-old trying to do a chin-up for the first time when he stands up straight, and, well, he’s always preferred slouching. It’s not like there’s anyone here to talk to; Seijuurou and those guys are here and so are Tetsuya’s annoying friends, snickering over their phones and probably playing some kind of multiplayer game. Shougo’s been here too many times to be interested in it, half-listened through too many elementary school field trips and rainy days when his mother had tried to get him to play nice with some prissy client’s kid and sent them both out here with the nanny.

There was a butterfly exhibit here when Shougo was in first grade; his class went to see it and that was the only time they ever skipped outer space completely when they went. He remembers the weird greenhouse-tent-thing with the fake sun lamps and all the plants, the girls in his class pointing out the flowers. His teacher had said if they were good and quiet and still a butterfly might land on them, and a couple did land on some of his classmates—as soon as Shougo got close to any they’d fly away, wings rippling confusion and what had seemed like dislike through the air. He’d decided he didn’t need any butterflies, anyway, and that the teacher was probably lying about being quiet just so they’d shut up. And Shougo’s not really sure why he’s thinking about the butterfly exhibit when they’re in the fucking planetarium, maybe because he really needs a cigarette right now.

He might not be able to come back in after he leaves, but the party hasn’t been that much better than drinking alone at home would have been (and what advantages it does have are probably nullified by the walk from his apartment building). He’d run into Mochizuki and they’d talked awkwardly and he’d caught Satsuki eyeing him but really hadn’t felt like talking her so had danced with some random girl wearing too much Chanel no. 5 for a bit until Satsuki had disappeared back into the crowd. Shougo hasn’t seen Ryouta all night, though, but it doesn’t mean he’s not here. No matter. He didn’t come to see Ryouta anyway.

There’s a bit of a chill in the air; it’s foggy but the air isn’t too damp for Shougo’s lighter to catch as he holds it up to one of the cherry cigarettes. He inhales; the heat blossoms in his lungs like the swirls of light on the ceiling back in the planetarium.

“Light me?”

“Get your own.”

That doesn’t stop Ryouta from darting in and lighting the end of his own cigarette on Shougo’s.

“Cherry? Ooh, that’s cute.”

“It’s my mom’s,” says Shougo. “Shut up.”

Ryouta takes a drag and for once obliges. They stand together, quietly; Shougo flicks the ash from the end of his cigarette and watches it fall to the sidewalk and glow until it extinguishes itself. He’s not going to be the first to speak.

“You’re an idiot.”

Shougo doesn’t respond. He doesn’t want to take the bait but he’s not going to tell Ryouta he’s right, either. Ryouta takes another drag and waits, but Shougo still says nothing. He can see Ryouta out of the corner of his eye, the worn-in Dolce & Gabbana khakis that stick to his legs like he tapes them on and the blazer that fits against his body as if it was made for him (and it probably was). The leather soles of his Prada loafers are firmly far away from the puddles on the edge of the pavement, and if Shougo felt like it he might flick his cigarette at them—but now isn’t the time to make Ryouta shriek about that stuff.

“And?” Shougo finally says.

Ryouta raises an eyebrow perfectly, gives him the kind of look that says he knows exactly what Shougo’s thinking (he’s probably just bluffing—okay, maybe he isn’t). In a flash he reaches out his free hand for Shougo’s wrist, pulls the cigarette away from his mouth.

“That’s imported—”

He never gets to finish the sentence (or the cigarette) because Ryouta kisses him first. His mouth burns like the kind of shitty cocktails he likes mixed with menthol and tobacco and something familiarly Ryouta, even more so than all those other equally horrible things.

All in all, this isn’t a terrible way to make up. (And maybe it’ll get even better.)

**Author's Note:**

> more gossip girl books au /shrugs away


End file.
